Experiments
by Vanillasiren
Summary: He finds it soothing, to watch her work ...


Experiments 

Summary: He finds it soothing, to watch her work…

Author's Note: I'm not weird, you're weird! Don't judge me!

He finds it oddly soothing to watch her work.

Not when the actual "human trials" begin – that is anything but soothing. Then, they are all alert, tense, waiting for the things to happen that are as horrible as they are necessary to win this war. But the actual research stages are different – her flitting about the lab, jotting down notes, muttering to herself in Spanish – there's a sort of rhythm to it all that he comes to appreciate. He enters her lab whenever he wants, something he knows she is not too happy about, though he does his best to make his presence unobtrusive. Occasionally, he asks questions about her progress, and sometimes he offers words of encouragement when she seems frustrated, but otherwise, he simply observing her process. She seems to grow used to his presence, and the silence between them seems almost … companionable.

He first learns of Dr. Isabel Maru, soon to be known more infamously as "Dr. Poison," through the position she has begrudgingly been given at Germany's most prominent university. He does his research before meeting her and deciding she is the one he wants for his plans. A woman in her field is a rare enough thing, but a woman of her brilliance is almost unheard of. It seems she had to claw her way into the profession with little to no help, and he finds her tenacity admirable, something he hopes she will continue to demonstrate when their alliance is formed.

He makes subtle inquiries about her of classmates, professors, and colleagues, finding much the same tired story among them – she is cold, she is bitter, she is a woman, and therefore, not to be trusted, but she is undeniably gifted, undeniably capable, and seems strangely immune to the capricious whims and passions of her sex. One of them refers to her as "unnaturally intelligent," and makes it clear he does not mean it a compliment. Another implies that she only devotes herself so completely to chemistry because her facial scars prevent her from obtaining what all women truly want – marriage, family, and children.

He does not particularly care for these disparaging remarks, whether there is any truth to them or not. There is a pettiness about the complaints of these men that is off-putting.

When they first meet, she is working in her lab – a tiny little room, smaller than most in the university. She is small, slender woman, her olive skin proclaiming her as Spaniard as clearly as he accented, raspy voice does. Her black hair is coiled in a bun at the nape or her neck, and she is dressed plainly, in clothes that neither seek to emphasize nor hide the attributes of her sex.

Then of course, there is the mask.

He'd asked, but no one seemed to know how she had come by the injuries that necessitated it. He thought it likely she had been disfigured by some experiment gone wrong, until he learned she had apparently worn the mask throughout her academic and professional career. In any case, no one knew exactly what had happened, and no one was bold enough to ask. He did not find her appearance startling – he'd seen worse on the battlefield – but he did wonder what had happened and how it shaped her into the person standing before him today, her large brown eyes regarding him warily.

It was her eyes, he thought, and not her mask, which were her most striking feature. For such a cautious, guarded woman, they were surprisingly expressive. Her got a sense that she thought she presented the world with an unreadable expression, but those of eyes of hers … they gave her away. He saw them go from tired wariness to keen interest when he explained his purpose for meeting her, when he offered her the privilege of working for the German government.

"And if I refuse?"

He smiled then, showing teeth. "I would rather you didn't."

She gave a short, humorless laugh, taking his meaning instantly, but not seeming offended at the implication.

"I have no qualms about making weapons, General. But I'd need a much bigger lab. Among other things…"

"Whatever you need, you will have."

A flicker of a smile from underneath the mask. "Good. When do I begin?"

When he brings in her to her new facilities, her eyes give her away again. Her movements are subdued, her posture indifferent, but the fierce joy and pride that lights her eyes are impossible to miss. She's looking around, running her hands across instruments made to her exact specifications, eager, almost giddy, but trying to contain it in his presence as best she can.

"I trust everything is to your liking, doctor?"

"It will be … sufficient. For now."

He laughs then, and she stiffens, turns. She is easily offended, he soon learns, but only because she is so used to the insults and taunts of the men she has worked with.

"What?" She snaps.

"Forgive me. I just think you are more excited that you pretend to be."

"Oh?"

"Your eyes are dancing."

She looks a bit taken aback at this statement. She starts to say something and then seems to think better of it, turning away from him, her eyes scanning her new workspace again.

"It is … a significant improvement over the lab I had before," she concedes. And then, softly: "Thank you."

"Of course. I will leave you to your work."

And he does, but soon enough, he finds himself back in her lab again, watching her efficient, graceful movements, feeling some of his anger and frustration at the cowardice and ineptitude of his own colleagues draining from him and she begins preliminary notes for her experiments. There are traitors in his own government who want to sign an armistice that will bring the Germany economy to its knees over the next decade or so, decimating the prosperity of their own people, but with this determined, vicious little genius by his side, he will show them that victory is not out of their grasp.

She works tirelessly, having the same fanatical devotion to her science as he does to his country and his war.

Over time, when he enters her lab, she seems to almost welcome his intrusion, glancing up to acknowledge him with something like a smile before diving back into her work. HH

He notes absently that while physically, she appears as tired as he feels, her eyes are still bright with that fervent devotion to what is now their common cause. He sits down to watch her, wondering if he will witness her on the brink of breakthrough, but soon enough, his weary mind wanders, and he takes his eyes off her for what seems to be only a few moments – until he hears a soft thud.

When he looks back, he realizes one of her instruments has fallen to the floor, and she herself is slumped over her desk, asleep. A stray hair has freed itself from her perpetual bun and has fallen onto her face, moving as she breathes. It's a strange picture, she makes, this deadly, ruthless viper of a woman, seeming in this moment, so ... guileless, almost innocent.

"Doctor?" He ventures softly, hoping his voice will wake her. When it doesn't, he approaches her, calls out again. He hesitates, and then shakes her shoulder gently. He knows she is very guarded when it comes to physical contact, but he has gotten her used to that, slowly, subtly, just as he has acclimated her to his presence in her lab, her sanctuary. Still, she does not wake.

Wary as he is of offending her, he cannot help but reach out for that wayward lock of her hair, tuck it back into its proper place, lightly tracing the outline of her jaw as he does so, and at that, she finally stirs. For an instant, she regards him sleepily, and then her eyes widen and she realizes how close he i. She scrambles out of the chair inelegantly and nearly tumbles to the floor, but he catches her before that happens, and she stares at him.

"You fell asleep."

"I'm … I'm sorry, I just …"

"When was the last time you slept?"

"According to you, I was sleeping just now." She's defensive already, but she hasn't moved out of his grasp.

"I mean before that." She appears to consider this. "You can't remember, can you?"

"I'm fine.

"Much as a I appreciate your tireless devotion to your task, my dear, it does neither of us any good if you work yourself to collapse. You need rest. Come."

She mutters a feeble protestation, but lets him escort her to her rooms. He's still holding onto her, almost half-carrying her there, and either she doesn't mind, or she's simply too exhausted to protest.

"I'm not weak," she mutters, as they get to her door.

"I never said you were. In fact, I have found you to be just the opposite."

He releases her, and she turns to face him. "Get some sleep," he advises her, reaching out to stroke her cheek. He's done that before, and each time, she has allowed it without comment, regarding him with a mixture of skepticism and resignation, but this time, her eyes are half-closed, and she leans into his touch, seeming willing to believe, if only for the moment, that the gesture is more than a blatant manipulation.

"You don't have to," she murmurs softly.

"What? Show you kindness?"

"You don't have to," she says again.

"I know. But there's no harm in it, is there? In a little kindness between us?"

She looks at him then, as he lets his hand drop away, seeming almost afraid. Wordlessly, she puts her hands on his chest, and then lays her head down on them, and he holds her, like that, rubbing her back, feeling the small, soft warmth of her, not so cold, not so bitter, only human after all.

After a moment, she disentangles herself, mutters something that sounds vaguely like "Goodnight," and closes the door on him, leaving him to contemplate this new development.

The next day, he enters her lab as usual, and she does not look up to acknowledge his presence, but she stiffens, and he can tell he has upset whatever delicate balance of respect and understanding they had between them. He waits until she seems to be at a stopping point in her research before breaking the silence.

"I wish to apologize, doctor … if I have offended you."

"You didn't offend me," she says, still not bothering to look at him, and he thinks in this way, she is displaying at least one common attribute of her sex, pretending there is nothing wrong, that offense has not been taken when it clearly has. For a moment, he considers telling her this, but as magnificent as her anger might be to witness, he prefers to continue breathing, without a deadly toxin coursing swiftly through his system on its way to end his life.

"I just … want to avoid misunderstanding, General."

"How so?"

She finally turns to face him then. "I am here in a professional capacity, not a personal one. I may be a woman, but I do not give myself over to … sentiment."

"Ah. You wish to avoid any … personal entanglements."

"No. I mean, yes. I mean…" She pauses. "I mean I am not capable of those kinds of … I do not … form those sorts of attachments. I am incapable of any … entanglements, as you call them. I simply lack the capacity to experience such things."

He regards her for a moment, remembers the warmth of her as she leaned against him. "Well. That is … complete and utter nonsense."

"What?"

"If you wish to avoid attachments, Isabel, then that is your business. But you cannot pretend indifference. Brilliant as you are, you are no less capable than the rest of when it comes to such matters. You are not immune."

She looks furious. "I do not like this new informality between us, _Erich_." She says his name pointedly. "I do not like it at all."

"You did not seem to mind it yesterday."

"I'm not weak!" She hisses.

"Who said anything about weakness?" He moves towards her. She coiled, cornered, a snake ready to strike, but he finds he doesn't care.

"I don't … feel those things. I _don't_."

"You mean you don't want to." He reaches for her, touches her face. She draws in a shaky breath, but does not shrink away from him.

"What are you doing?"

"Testing your claim, doctor. If you are incapable, it should not affect you."

"If I you don't stop this, I'll –"

"You'll what? How do you deal with men like me?"

"There are no men like you."

"Hm." His arms are around her now, his eyes locked on hers. "Should I take that as a compliment?"

"I don't care how you take it," she hisses, and turns her head away from him.

"Take off your mask," he orders, and she turns back to stare at him.

"What? _Why_?"

"Because I want to see you."

She looks as if she will protest, but then he sees what occurs to her. She thinks her scars will repulse him, and then this will all be over, her claim unproven, the experiment incomplete, allowing her to be safe in the knowledge that she is immune to his touch, to his possession, that she is not as human and vulnerable as he is, as he needs her to be.

"Fine," she snaps.

He lets her move away from him as she carefully removes the pieces of her mask. When she turns back to him, her gaze is defiant, as if daring him to look at her without flinching.

The damage is significant, but he has seen soldiers with worse, though admittedly, he has never seen such injuries on a woman. Still, it isn't as bad as all that, and he finds nothing about it that makes her any less of what she is in his eyes. He has always thought she had a subtle sort of exquisiteness, something quiet, something easily overlooked, and there is appeal, somehow, in a woman who possesses beauty, however broken, but does not know it.

"Does it hurt?" He asks her. Her eyes widen; this is not the reaction she expected.

"No…"

"And … you still have feeling, on that side?"

"I … yes…"

"So when I do this …" he runs his fingers over her damaged cheek, "You feel it?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"I … wait, what are you… you can't," she hisses, as he draws her in, "You can't … w-want me … like this … I'm not … I'll kill you, I swear I will, I'll poison you, I'll make you suffer, don't you dare, don't …"

When he kisses her, she stills, grows silent. Then she opens her mouth to his and kisses him back, winding her arms around his shoulders, coiling into him like the snake she is. And when he breaks the kiss, pulls away from her and steps back, silently asking her to come to him and prove her own theory wrong, she touches her lips, disbelieving, the utters something indecipherable – a curse in Spanish, he will learn later – and moves forward to kiss him again, cupping his face with her hands, angry, frightened, bewildered, but utterly, utterly, his.

He supposes it is not the most practical of decisions, to possess her in this way. She points out as much, afterwards, even as she is warm and trembling in his arms.

"Men do not always think of the consequences when seeking what they want," she says, as he strokes her hair, finally free from its bun. "But women are forced to consider them."

He is inclined to reluctantly agree. Still, their arrangement is and always has been mutually beneficial, and he does not intend to take her for granted simply because they have added a new layer to it. Embittered and angry as they both are, dark as their ends may be, there are not cold. They are still warm, alive, and breathing, and occasionally needing of moments such as this to remind them of those facts. As she continues her experiments, getting closer and closer to achieving their ultimate goal, the experiment that he began with her continues to play itself out, as these things are wont to do. She will ask if it can always be like this, and he will answer honestly that he does not know. They will not examine such sentiments too closely, or linger too long together, while there is still work to be done, but he has her, and she has him, and they are not alone.


End file.
